


The Pigeon's deplorable nesting place

by SlothfulSlytherin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, John-centric, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, My First Fanfic, Pigeons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 11:44:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11103909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlothfulSlytherin/pseuds/SlothfulSlytherin
Summary: Upon returning to London, John Watson took up residence in a mouldy little flat on Baker Street.  The flat itself wasn't all that special or interesting, his new neighbour on the other hand...





	The Pigeon's deplorable nesting place

John Watson moved into a barely inhabitable flat, though if it weren’t for the landlady who had practically gifted it to him at the price she was offering, he would still be in his grey, dull bedsit; anything was preferable to that. His new not overly spacious but sufficient home quickly grew on him, despite generally being a bit damp, and the walls being peppered by interesting shapes of mould. 

“It’s so good to rent this place out, finally”, his new overbearing, but lovely landlady had said the day he moved in.   
“I’ve been trying to rent it out for ages, you know? Granted, it’s a dreary place, but don’t worry, dear, you can come around for a cup of tea any time you like.”

During his first week of living in 221C Baker Street Mrs. Hudson showered John with tea and biscuits, while firmly insisting she was not his housekeeper.   
Oddly, he felt like a student returning home for the holidays, where his mother would smother him with affection, but leave him to complete his household tasks by himself.

Back then he would always have a hard time sleeping when he was home, because of all the havoc his drunk sister wrecked. He’d routinely lay awake in his bed, judging by the noise how long he’d have to wait before making his way over to her room, handing her a bucket, and holding her hair back as she vomited. 

In a similar fashion his nights were now interrupted by a mysterious neighbour, whom he heard pacing around upstairs, often accompanied by the sounds of a violin being tortured (usually if the pacing had been especially frantic beforehand), or beautiful interpretations of musical pieces, that John even recognised. At least, this was the reply he would give, were he asked why he perpetually found himself sleep deprived. 

The truth was, of course, much less comfortable to talk about, and much less glamorous. John still suffered from nightmares about his time in Afghanistan so violent, that he would prefer to never spend another minute sleeping. Whatever his neighbour was up to all those nights, was a welcome distraction for John, and the noises that permeated his flat in the wee hours of the morning gave him a feeling of companionship, which he soon found was a very welcome change. 

As unlikely as it seems, however, John was yet to meet his neighbour three weeks into his time at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson did not bother to introduce them, but she spoke fondly of her other tenant whenever she brought John tea. 

Between “He’s a bit eccentric, but perfectly lovely. Does god awful experiments but last week he solved a case again!” and “When I went upstairs to do a bit of dusting, I found thumbs in his fridge! Can you believe it? Thumbs! But I know he’s not up to anything dreadful, what with him being so clever…” John failed at making out his neighbour’s character. 

He did learn the man’s name though, Sherlock Holmes, and following a quick internet search combined with Mrs. Hudson’s scattered characterisation, John was strangely intrigued as well as a little intimidated. The self-proclaimed detective was either insane, a bloody genius, or perhaps both. It was astonishing to read about this enigmatic man, who could be described as acerbic and aloof at best, when John would rate his experience with him as predominantly positive. 

Granted, he had never actually met him in person, but he liked to think that all the sleepless nights they spent together separated by the ceiling had created a tentative bond of friendship or companionship. Sherlock Holmes had not once complained about John’s shouts and other undignified noises when he woke still trapped in the throes of his previous nightmare, but rather his neighbour would gravitate towards his violin and coax soothing tones from its strings. 

And while playing the violin at all hours of the night was a natural habit to the detective, John liked to think that part of the man’s motivation was to calm John, to give him something to hold on to lest he fail to dissociate himself from the memories of war that threatened to consume him. 

In return John never complained about Sherlock Holmes’ odd audible, and on one memorable occasion (when the whole building reeked of burnt plastic) smell-wise annoying habits. He was not really in a position to pass judgement in any case.

As time went on John ran out of reasons in favour of introducing himself to the detective. The flat above him was eerily quiet during the day – which was not surprising given how late he stayed up at night - yet judging from his website, John assumed that with a mind like his he would have a hard time finding sleep. Add to that the fact Sherlock Holmes had not made any move to introduce himself to John, he could not help but conclude that his neighbour simply had no desire to make his acquaintance. Why would he, really? 

There was a time when John had something to offer, a good foundation to build an exciting friendship on. In school he had been a rather popular chap, what with being the rugby captain and all; followed by his years as a medical student. A fact which certainly appealed to a wide range of people, who either wallowed in the same study-hell as him, or otherwise those who assumed that someone striving to be a medical doctor must be a decent person. Either way, John gladly formed new friendships wherever he went and thoroughly enjoyed the camaraderie he found in the army (until he had to pronounce the first of his friends dead after fruitlessly trying to save his life).

Things were different now, though, and by things he meant everything. John limped through the mouldy flat he lived in if he could be bothered to get up at all, he faced his therapist in silence once a week and was supposedly plagued by PTSD. How could he possibly have post-traumatic stress disorder, when absolutely nothing happened to him, when there was nothing to be stressed about? Most days he neither left the flat nor could he get himself to eat, and the only person he interacted with on a semi-regular basis was Mrs. Hudson. 

No reasons at all for a man like Sherlock Holmes to want to make his acquaintance, which was exactly why John was muchly surprised – and not at all unpleasantly so – when he opened his door to reveal the very man who had occupied John’s thoughts for longer than strictly appropriate.

“You need to move out”, he demanded with a calm urgency in his voice, a semi-apologetic smirk playing around his mouth. After a second of reflection he corrected himself: "I mean in. Out and then in. Or in and then out."

“I’m … sorry?”, John tried, but all words required to string a coherent sentence together with had had abandoned him.

He stared dumbly at his vis-à-vis and couldn’t help but marvel at the pristine facial features that were greeting him, blended together seamlessly by smooth pale skin; those sharp cheekbones threatening to peak through, complimented by the turned-up collar of a dark blue woollen coat. And yet the man managed to look oddly inviting; John suspected the arrangement of soft-looking curly hair on the top of his head had something to do with that.

Sherlock Holmes made an annoyed noise and implored John with his piercing multicoloured eyes to direct his attention from his face to an odd patch on the floor in front of his door. There, on the dusty doormat that had come with this flat lay an egg, that John highly doubted stemmed from a chicken. 

“Obviously my pigeon has decided to nest on your doormat. I truthfully did not intend for this to happen, and frankly I would have chosen a more dignified nesting space than your deplorable… thing, but this situation arose and it has to be dealt with. As you cannot disturb her nesting area, you will have to either stay inside your flat for the coming weeks, or, which is my recommendation, move in with me. I therefore propose you take up domicile on my sofa. The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

After rattling off this soliloquy at a speed that did not allow him to take a breath in between, Sherlock Homes threw him a facetious wink, quickly glanced toward the pigeon egg by his feet before turning sharply and making a dramatic exit.

One week following this bizarre introduction John Watson could be found in flat B during the day, if he wasn’t running after criminals in the streets. He gave up spending his nights on the sofa early on into his stay, when he and Sherlock Holmes figured out they only needed one bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> This story actually (sort of) happened! A friend of mine sent me pictures of a pigeon sitting on a door mat in front of a flat in her building; a couple of minutes later the pigeon was gone, but it had laid an egg there. As with anything I obviously had to put this in a Johnlock context.


End file.
